Wicked Games
by KayteeLou
Summary: After a lifetime of abuse, Sansa Stark has a plan to finally get back on top and become Lady of Winterfell. There’s only one man who can help her to achieve her goal. This fic is a rewrite of the series; in particular of the day Sansa that kills Petyr. I’ve used parts of the cannon storylines and relationships from the series, and woven in my fictional storyline along the way.
1. chapter 1

Standing on one of the tall battlements of Winterfell, Sansa Stark's sky blue eyes stared out across the empty frozen fields. Not a rider in sight; truly the start of a cold, harsh winter. She breathed in the cold air through her nose, the chill stuck in the back of her throat - sharp like a blade. She shuddered beneath the thick black fur draped over her shoulders.

As a, still young, member of the Stark family, Sansa wanted nothing more than to bring honour to her family name. Lord Ned Stark had passed many years ago under the brat King Joffrey's orders. Her mother, Lady Catlyn, and her older brother Robb just a year later - along with Robb's heir, still growing in his mother's womb. Sansa had been beside herself when she had heard, for who could murder an innocent unborn child and pregnant mother? The thought of being such a naive fool still caused her to flush red with shame. This act was, of course, again, the Lannister's doing.

The right to Winterfell had then fallen to her younger brother, Bran, who, until recently, had been beyond the wall. On his return, Sansa had learnt that Bran was now operating as 'The Three-Eyed Raven' and had, therefore, denounced all titles and ranks. The whole prospect frightened and confused Sansa, a summer girl with no knowledge of what lay beyond the wall. She asked no questions, she likely wouldn't have understood the answers anyway.

Her bastard brother, Jon, had served as a man of the Night's Watch for many years. He, on the other hand, knew all about what was beyond the wall and was desperate to stop it. Sansa did not wish to know how exactly he was now back in Winterfell, named King of the North. Her path had not crossed with wights or White Walkers, and so Sansa was inclined not to believe him or the rest of the howling Wildlings that now filled Winterfell. After Bran (and then little Rickon, who had also passed), the title quite rightly fell to Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, Queen of the North. But her Father's bannermen had very different ideas.

The castle of Winterfell looked beautiful in Winter, Sansa only distantly remembered the last winter. She was certainly far too young to appreciate the symmetry of the way the snow settled on the keep. It was a structure built to withstand Winter; with hot streams running beneath its foundations keeping it warm and creating a ghostly mist around the grounds. Sansa let her fingers settle in a mound of snowfall in one of the crenels. She appreciated the sting of crisp pain for a moment and looked sadly across the open plains, still lost in her thoughts.

Truly, seeing Jon had been a relief. With the help of a broken Theon Greyjoy, she had managed to escape Ramsey Bolton's clutches with her life. Even then, she thought she was going to freeze to death. In the nick of time, they were rescued by Brianne of Tarth; a large woman with quite the knack for killing men. Sansa had grown fond of Lady Brianne, despite her stern and humourless outlook on just about everything. Sansa herself had become rather the same after all of her misfortunes. Seeing Jon again was the first time Sansa had felt like she was home for many years.

The hatred that Sansa once felt for Jon had ceased to be. That was her Mother's quarrel, besides, she had come to learn that there were many men in Westeros worth hating more than a poor bastard boy. But she did still not see him as her Brother, as her blood.

After being reunited, the remaining members of the Stark family had no choice but to declare war against Ramsey Bolton and take back their family home. No honour came from being a craven. It was a necessary course of action; Sansa knew that. She also wanted revenge on her captor, her Husband. She had grown darker in her adolescence. One terrible event after another had taught her many hard lessons, and what she had learnt was to have no mercy.

Most of her Father's bannermen had all either fled, died or joined another King's War. Sansa and Jon managed to gather a few thousand men, most of the force was made up of Wildling men from beyond the War; fearless men with no honour and no discipline. Knowing Jon's war was already lost, Sansa wrote to the only man whom she knew would help her.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa carefully descended down the stone steps leading up to the battlements. They were already coated with a thick layer of ice. Her long, delicate fingers trailed along the stone walls, blackened with age - she wondered how long exactly the walls had stood. Her grey gown trailed behind her, dusting away the snow perfectly as though it was icing sugar. The hem of her dress was embroidered with wolves, baring their vicious, white fangs.

It was his voice that caught her attention. She would have recognised that voice anywhere - as smooth as aged wine, brimming with philosophies. She lifted her head to glance across the modest courtyard. The main courtyard was over the other side of Winterfell. This one, near the Weirwood Forest, was much smaller and filled with the clanging of iron and stables where impatient horses waited to be fed. Still, his voice stood out above it all.

Petyr Baelish had been a large part of Sansa Stark's life since she was a young girl. Her horrible past wasn't the other thing that had taught her lessons; she saw Petyr as her counsellor. He was a small man with a tongue as sharp as his pointed beard, and a head full of secrets. The moment she met him, he left her short of breath.

As a child, Sansa's head was as full of wonderful, romantic ideas as it was with thick auburn hair. Truly, she had thought that she was in love with Joffrey when she first laid eyes on him. Winterfell had always seemed grey, but his gold hair and velvet scarlet tunic lit up the entire courtyard that day. Upon reflection, it would seem that Sansa actually rather liked grey; it suited her. And, what she had thought to be love turned out to be a silly girl's impossible fairytale that real life did not grant anyone.

Petyr made her feel differently. She had not thought it to be an attraction; on the contrary, her feelings (and Petyr himself) intimidated her at first. She clearly remembered telling Jeyne once that he made her feel like she didn't have any clothes on when her looked at her (remembering that made her smirk). He simply reached places within her than no one else ever could.

He was an enigma, unlike other men, and he knew her inside out. As she grew older she quickly learnt that he was not a man to be trusted, and yet she was still drawn to him like a moth to a lightbulb.

The crisp air swept lose strands of auburn hair from the neat plait she had fashioned earlier in the day. Her pale complexion flushed pink from the cold. Petyr was clearly in her sight now, spinning tales to one of the commanders of her guard.

He looked rather normal compared to when Sansa had first met him - a flurry of emerald and gold - tunic fit for a King and expensive rings catching the summer sun. Now, like Winterfell, he was grey. His tunic was still embroidered with fancy patterns, but they were simply black against a grey backdrop with flashes of silver here and there, matching his hair. He still looked handsome, Sansa thought.

She took his advice on just as many occasions as he took her. Although, that didn't happen until she was in the Eyrie. Sansa was still a mere child. Only fifteen; she'd seen countless deaths, been engaged to a Tyrant and married off to an imp twice her age. It was then that she told her first real lie to protect Petyr Baelish. The Knights of the Vale asked her what happened and the words came out of her mouth like vomit. She did not know why she lied for him or how she had mustered up such a believable story. She had just witnessed him murder her Aunt Lyssa, but she somehow trusted his judgement. It was like he was already inside her.

Before she knew it, she was back under his care and, just a few days later, under him. It wasn't the first time he had kissed her, so Sansa wasn't shocked. He usually tasted of peppermint. His moustache tickled her. His kisses made her heart beat faster than she could have thought possible.

But, this time, the kissing didn't end. For the first time, his tongue started to greedily explore her mouth. Before Petyr, she all she knew of sex was what mother had taught her and what Jeyne had giggled about. His hands were everywhere, unbuttoning and unfastening her. For a second, she'd remembered the noises her Aunt Lyssa had been making just weeks before.

Before she knew it, she was laying down and his desperation was pressed against her sex - through layers of her dress and his buttoned breeches - but it was pressed there, hard, and she could feel his heartbeat pulsing from within it. The fire inside her burnt hotter than ever. Her skin was clammy, her palms were wet. She had wondered if any of it was normal.

When he entered her, the cry came out of her so unexpectedly that Petyr had to cover her mouth. She felt her soul leave her body. A weight was lifted. A door swung open inside her that she did not even know existed. He was big - much too thick for her childlike frame - but he had pleasured her so much with his hands and mouth that she was wet, throbbing and desperate for him. Because of this, he fitted inside her snugly, but perfectly. She came immediately. Until this point, Sansa Stark had been a little girl. He had helped her to blossom in to a woman.

Returning to Petyr Baelish to ask for help in the Battle of the Bastards, however, hadn't be an easy decision. Of course, he supplied them with the men and, with the help of the Vale, they won the battle. No one cared about the part that Sansa played in winning. It only mattered that they won.

They were back in Winterfell within the day and "Lady Sansa" took her parent's old chambers. Sansa was sure to exact a just revenge on her doting husband. She still could taste the warm blood that sprayed out from Ramsey's jugular as his ravenous hounds ripped into his flesh. She felt no regret.

Petyr had decided to stay in Winterfell too. It took a while for Sansa to adjust back to having him around after her time with Ramsey Bolton. Her feelings for him were undeniable, but part of her still blamed him for her unfortunate marriage.

I was not to know of the monster that you were being given to. He told her time and time again until, one night, she believed him.

On this night, the castle was darker and quieter than death itself, they had both been drinking mulled wine. Their bellies were warm, the fire in Sansa's room was roaring. The outside world seemed to not exist. Petyr's eyes were filled with something that Sansa was not familiar with.

His honesty on that night shocked Sansa, but he held her naked body and stroked away the damp strands of hair from her face the entire time. He told her everything he wanted; every fantasy - no matter how dark (or how unrealistic). It was then that she realised.

He was different with her because he was in love with her. He wanted the best for her, he always did. He wanted her to become Lady of Winterfell, as was her right.

Sansa wanted to become Lady of Winterfell too. She wanted it more than anything. And Petyr would help her get it.


End file.
